


Fine

by IHaveNeverBeenWise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hat, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:52:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/pseuds/IHaveNeverBeenWise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hadn’t been his beanie, in the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [permets--tu](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=permets--tu).



It hadn’t been his beanie, in the beginning.

Enjolras was the one who had bought it – red, like almost every other article of clothing the man owned – and he was the one who had first pulled it over his own golden curls. It had made its way into Grantaire’s hands, who delighted in appropriating it and hiding it until Enjolras either lost his temper or found it. At some point, no one’s quite sure when, Grantaire had started to wear it himself, whenever Enjolras wasn’t. And soon enough, Grantaire was the only one who wore it; Enjolras had given up his claim on the thing completely. Grantaire wore it constantly; the flash of scarlet amidst dark curls a stark contrast to gray eyes and sallow skin. It became a part of him, a trademark – no one remembered that it had once been Enjolras’.

He only took it off when he was drinking. Not every time, not when it was for pleasure or because he needed to, or because it was the end of the day, but when he had a purpose, when he was aiming for oblivion. Because with a bottle in hand like that, he’s a half-thing, and he’s filling the other half with what he can. A half-thing doesn’t get to wear that hat, not then. And it’s a stupid reason, because those times aren’t any different from the rest of the days, but he can’t bring himself to wear Enjolras’ hat because he knows Enjolras disapproves – hates it, even. And so the hat feels like a mockery, a reminder that he isn’t good enough, can’t be good enough – and so he drinks and drinks and drinks until he forgets even that.

He was wearing it the night he finally kisses Enjolras. He was wearing it and it was snowing and he felt light enough to float away. He was wearing it when he tried to get sober, two weeks after that. He didn’t get very far – the shaking and vomiting and bone-deep ache were enough to make him realize that he’s probably in over his head, probably too far gone for it to be worth trying. He doesn’t try to quit again, but he made an effort to cut back, even just a little bit. But he was wearing it during their first Christmas together, and their one-year anniversary, and practically every day after that. It’s stupid and sentimental, but he can’t seem to get rid of it.

He took it off the night they fought. Things had been tense for a while – Grantaire had been drinking more (It’s not your job to fix me) and Enjolras had been spending more and more time at work (It’s more important than me, more important than either of us) and the honeymoon period had been over for years. That night had been particularly bad, though – he’d had a bottle in his hand, not enough to get truly drunk but just enough to loosen his tongue a little; Enjolras had brought papers home to work on. _Do you care anymore?_ He hadn’t meant to say it – it had just slipped out. And then, an hour of fighting and yelling and bitter accusations flying across the room in the form of words packaged to hurt. And then, finally, a proper reply: _Maybe I shouldn’t then. It’s not worth the effort._

_No, not really._

_All right._

_Fine._

_Fine._

And he’d walked out through the door of the apartment, down the stairs, and out into the street. He wished he could have mustered the energy to be angry, to slam the door and stomp his feet, but he felt hollow – nothing, just an empty space echoing with harsh words. No regret, no shame, no rage, just acceptance. He’d always known this would come. He’s just thankful he got what he did out of it, while it lasted.

Outside, the cold bit at his skin, slush and snow swirling around his ankles. He stood still a moment and raised his eyes to the night sky, a strip of stars peeking out from between heavy clouds. He was already soaked through, shivering in the wind and the snow. He raised a weary hand and let trembling fingers rest on sodden wool, the feel of the cap familiar beneath his hand. And slowly, so slowly, he let his hand fall, pulling the hat from his hair as it did so. He held the woolen cap in a clenched fist for a moment longer, without looking at it, and then painstakingly uncurled his fingers, one by one until it slipped from his grasp. It fell limply to the trampled ground, as red as blood against the snow.

And he turned and left without a glance at it, stumbling down the street with dragging feet, hair falling, knotted, into his eyes. He wished he hadn’t forgotten his bottle.

_Fine._

_Fine._

**Author's Note:**

> For Cami (permets--tu), based off her headcanon and this image: http://i-have-never-been-wise.tumblr.com/post/45165181910/guys-i-drew-a-grantaire-thats-not-wearing#notes


End file.
